


The god delusion

by haeresitic



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, moon knight (marvel comics)
Genre: Depiction of trauma, Gen, Mentions of characters' fridging, Mentions of mental breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haeresitic/pseuds/haeresitic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Set after Bendis/Maleev Moon Knight] Khonshu says hello</p>
            </blockquote>





	The god delusion

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt to reconcile Bendis's Moon Knight with the rest of Marc's history and past development as a character. Superior Spider-Man Team Up #1 suggests that Marc's back in NY, so this is my idea as to what happened in between. 
> 
> For more clarification, this is set after SpOck becomes Spider-Man, and when Matt is just starting to deal with Foggy's cancer.

He’s always there in his dreams. He’s always there in the corner of the mirror in the bathroom. He’s always there, who’s he kidding, he’s never left him. He’s been quiet, but that’s what gods are like. Sometimes they appear to you clothed in holiness and royalty and whatever with a legion of angels or doves or butterflies; sometimes they part clouds and speak to you in pompous condescending voices with ominously flashing, dancing light and/or rolling thunders; sometimes they watch you silently, they judge you, they test you.

Hello, Khonshu says, not in his dreams, not in the corner of the mirror in the bathroom, not in an explosion of pyrotechnics or worshipping angels. He says ‘hello’ like an old friend, standing above him as he wakes up, blinking in the Los Angeles sun filtering through his curtain, blinking at the sight of his god watching over him.

Marc remains still in his bed. He rubs his face, scratches his rough chin; his legs twitch, as legs do in the morning when your brain slowly wakes up and takes account of your limbs. The ache will set in soon, in maybe five seconds, his muscles remembering just how many rooftops he jumped off just hours before, how many faces he kicked, how far he ran.

Khonshu is patient. He waits for Marc to curse out the aches, the fatigue. When he sits up, he turns on the TV in front of him. CNN. Morning news. The world is shit the economy is shit everything is shit. Good. There’s still reason for him to live. He doesn’t turn to face Khonshu, his god who he leaves standing by his bed, not like a mother, because a mother would go into your bed and rub your hair and gently coax you up to face the day. Or at least that’s what Marc thinks mothers are like, because he doesn’t really remember his much. Whatever mothers are like, Khonshu isn’t one. He’s his god, but he’s looking at him like an old friend, watching him smugly—if his dead black eyes can sparkle with amusement, they would.

Are you wondering if this is a dream? asks Khonshu in his god voice—deceptively fatherly, 100% paternalistic, 200% annoying to hear. 

No, no, says Marc dismissively. Now he’s flipping through the channels. There are many more cartoons playing than usual. Is it Sunday? This is real, I know.

Khonshu barks out a laugh. His beak-mouth can’t curl into a sneer, but neither should his lack of tongue allow him to speak. Yes, everything is real, everything is real but you. You, Marc Spector, you.

Marc switches off the TV and throws the remote to the other side of the bed. With a groan he steps out of bed, bare feet curling slightly upon touching the cold wood of his floor. Last night (this early morning) he had taken a handful of pain-killers and stripped off his costume and plopped into bed without shower, without proper first-aid, without proper food. So this late morning he’s stinky, he’s hurting, and he’s hungry.

How are Marlene and Frenchie doing? Khonshu calls out. Now he’s across the apartment, sitting cross-legged on his kitchen counter. Oh, I forgot, who needs them, right? You’re a big boy, now, you can take care of yourself.

There’s still some coffee left from yesterday in his coffee jug. Marc downs it. It’s cold, bitter, gross. It’s coffee. Need more coffee. He opens the cupboard above him. Ah, he’s run out of coffee powder.

Don’t you just miss Gena’s coffee? asks that grating voice again. That was real coffee, wasn’t it, Marky? None of that sweetened Starbucks shit, none of this watery bovine pee you accomplish for yourself every morning.

Marc approaches the counter Khonshu is sitting on. Move, he says, but his god doesn’t take any command from him. He snakes around the feathery limbs to grab a too-ripe banana.

I miss our old friends, sings Khonshu. Maybe not you, though, eh? You’ve got new friends to hang out with, those Avengers? Or have they already forgotten about you, maybe they’re scared of you, maybe they only liked Jake, but not Marc, huh? Ah who cares about them, you’ve got these new friends, haven’t you? Sharp talons reach out to his forehead. Who cares about Steven or Jake, you’ve got superheroes in there, now, eh, now you’re a good guy just like them!

The banana is too soft; it’s now mush in Marc’s hands. Marc throws it into the dustbin and starts rummaging through his fridge. He finds a bottle of whip cream.

Why are you here?

Khonshu steps off the counter. He folds his hands across his avian chest. I want Marc Spector back.

That’s me.

That harsh laughter again. God help you when your god laughs at you. Please, Marky, why are you still trying to play this game?

Marc shakes the bottle of whip cream. It’s half-full. He sprays a dollop into his mouth and says nothing.

I’m surprised you didn’t cast yourself in that film of yours. That’s what you’ve been doing your entire adult life, isn’t it? Being a shit actor?

Marc shakes the bottle again and pours more cream into his mouth, little droplets of it trickling down his chin. Only now does he realise he’s got a large but superficial scratch on his upper arm. He should get it disinfected, preferably five hours ago.

 

 

 

 

He always stands before his brother’s body in his dreams. Sometimes he’s a cracked adamantium shell. Sometimes he’s a hollow figure in white. Both would eventually burst into flames and disappear into a high pillar of smoke reaching to the high heavens. He would cry out to his god, “I’m not my brother’s keeper.”

His god isn’t picky about sacrifices.

 

 

 

 

 

He’s got his fortune tied up in a maze of trust funds, shelf companies and Swiss bank accounts under a dozen names. He’s been learning trying to manage them—last time Frenchie and Marlene would help him with this, but now he’s hired a handful of trustees who know him by different names. The old Marc (and Steve and Jake) would laugh if he knew just how many names he answers to these days.

He misses driving the cab. That was Jake’s thing, he’d tell himself, but who was he kidding, Jake was him. It’s always been him.

There isn’t much for him to do in the afternoon now that his show’s been cancelled. He wanders about the town, keeping an eye and an ear out for what’s happening underground. He jokes to himself about creating a ‘Crawley personality’, just like he’s ‘created’ Cap’s, and Spider-Man’s and Wolverine’s.

He’s forgotten about those three. Well, they’re there. He can call on them anytime, direct them, give them lines to say. Hollywood doesn’t know what it’s missing by kicking him out; no one does characters like him. But he doesn’t need them to drown out his thoughts, not when his god has remembered him again.

I didn’t forsake you, protests Khonshu, you forsook me.

He can’t answer. He’s just a figure in the corner of the diner, non-consequential to the conversation between the two men in the booth behind him which he’s trying to snoop on.

Khonshu is dipping his talon into his coffee mug. There’s no way I could fit into your new role as a dashing but generic—and may I also add, BOOO-RIIINGGG—superhero. You thought you could shed me, but nah, you were only hiding from me. And I let you. Because, hey, why not, I can appreciate a one-man play from time to time.

There’s no splash when Marc yanks the mug from Khonshu and takes a sip.

You know my favourite bit? Khonshu sniggers with his beak-mouth that cannot physically snigger. When Marc Spector decides to be everything that he’s not and, plot twist!—and he still calls himself Marc Spector. Now, Khonshu says, licking his talon, that’s what I call character development.

 

 

 

 

 

There is an unspoken common break that a lot of New York vigilantes working during the graveyard shift share. The venues change from time to time, but if you’re used to hopping from rooftop to rooftop looking for crimes to foil, you’d know how to find a small gathering of costumed heroes sitting at the ledge of a building or a bridge, taking a breather while still keeping a watchful eye over the city.

The Avengers doesn’t call on him a lot these days. More often than not he drops by the Avengers tower for some kind of formal dinner or informal gathering he feels he’s obliged to go to. It reminds him of Steven Grant and his stuffy penguin suits and the troublesome social clubs and dinners and banquets.  

He still dons the costume whenever he’s in town. Maybe old habits die hard. Maybe there’s really no place like home. He doesn’t take the ‘copter, no, that requires a pilot apart from himself. But good ol’ Angelwing still works just fine; he just has to take real good care of it since there’s no longer anyone who could regularly maintain and fix it.

The above explains why Moon Knight and Daredevil could be hanging out on the roof of a dilapidated church at 3.30 in the morning. Marc would expect Spider-Man to be swinging by any time, but apparently he’s been, as the rumour goes, different, lately.

The last time Marc was face-to-face with Daredevil he was a literal devil and he’d tried to possess him and/or kill him. But things like this happen in their line of work; he doesn’t hold it personally against Murdock or anything.

Now, Marc is sitting opposite Khonshu, looking intently at the spots on the table, on the crumbs which are what’s left of his muffin, on the crumpled tissue paper, anything but to actually look at his god. He thinks about that night, him and Daredevil on the roof of the church at 3.30 AM. Murdock was talking about mortality. He was talking about fate. He was talking about God.

“Maybe God is as helpless as any of us,” he was saying, “maybe he’s just a passive watcher of this massive play he’d accidentally started.”

Not my god, Marc thinks, my god is a shit-stirrer.

 

 

 

 

 

Khonshu takes on different faces. Mostly he’s an ugly humanoid vulture. Sometimes he’s the smooth white statue, the first thing he’d ever laid his eyes on in his second life. He used to be the Bushman, with or without face. But not anymore.

This morning, the second morning, he’s Marlene. Blonde, beautiful Marlene, he’s even got her smile down perfectly. Remember that I created you, Khonshu says with Marlene’s voice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Khonshu’s with him now when he fights. He hovers like a vulture hungrily, eagerly watching a hunt But he doesn’t talk as much as he used to a year or two ago. He doesn’t beg Marc to maim or mutilate his victims—he doesn’t even talk of ‘victims’. He doesn’t talk about kills, and he doesn’t talk about sacrifices.

Remember that all gods bargain.

Khonshu waits for him to catch his breath before talking to him. You fight without a purpose now, he says matter-of-factly.

Marc checks his web-shooter, changes the cartridges.

Why do you want to be an Avenger so badly? You were better than this. You were an Avatar of Vengeance, with capital A  _and_ V.

The photon shield flickers off. The claws retract.

I can’t believe you kicked Lockley and Grant out for these three boring-ass dickbags. You tried so hard with Lockley and Grant; you aren’t even bothering with these three. They’re just one-dimensional walking tropes. I’m embarrassed for you, Marky, oh man.

“Buck,” Marc whispers to his com-link, “pick me up.”

Khonshu drops from his perch. He’s no longer an over-sized vulture—he’s the girl with black hair and dark eyes that seem to suck all of him in.

Don’t you dare, bastard, starts Marc.

Is this what you fight for now? Maya snickers. Ghosts?

Then Maya becomes Marlene, a pregnant Marlene.

Marc turns away. He tries to calm his shaking body. He clenches his fists. He takes a deep breath.

Remember what used to drive you, Khonshu asks. He’s Khonshu again, he’s speaking in that annoying overly-paternalistic voice.

Crusading in your name, proclaiming your gospel? sneers Marc, still not turning around.

Khonshu’s laughter echoes everywhere. Please, Marky, you never were as good of an apostle of mine as you were of yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Khonshu perches himself on his shoulder now like how parrots perch on pirates’. Like the world’s most gruesome canary. He still doesn’t talk as much as he used to, but every time he turns Marc can feel phantom feathers brushing against his cheek.

New York! New York! screams Khonshu one day. Come on, Marky, Hollywood doesn’t want you, sure, but what about Broadway?

What’s holding you back? Burned bridges?

How freaking big is the NYC? What are the chances of you stumblin’ upon old friends and lovers, eh?

“Shut up,” says Marc, brushing him off his shoulder. Buck looks up from his station.

“What’d you say, Marc?”

Marc picks up the silver crescent darts he’d asked Buck to make this week. He cradles them, puts them down save for one, and then throws it at the target across the room.

“And here I thought you’ve stopped talking to yourself,” says Buck again.

Marc grins. “There’s just me now, Buck, me and my god.”

A chuckle, maybe a disbelieving chuckle. “Amen to that.”

He walks up to the target and takes out the crescent dart. These things cost a lot of money and effort to make.

“How do you feel about New York, Buck?”

**Author's Note:**

> (For the record I'm 100% against Marlene's and Maya's--these two badass ladies--fridging for Marc. Dude is his own source for manpain, he doesn't need fridging for emotional oomph!)


End file.
